


Copper and Gunpowder

by nerdyydragon



Series: Kingsman Tumblr Ficlets [43]
Category: Kingsman (2014), Kingsman (2015), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Dark Harry Hart, Gen, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Reaper Harry Hart, Supernatural Elements, non-established relationship, sort of, the major ch death is canonically Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyydragon/pseuds/nerdyydragon
Summary: One of the hazards of being a Kingsman was the constant looming of death, either your own or that of another. It is never merciful. Nor is it selfless, no, Death will use any means to establish his goal, even if he has to appropriate use of a familiar face.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer*  
> This is also my first dalliance into the realm of Dark!Hart, so we'll see how this goes over.

They say death changes you. That you come out the other side a different person than when you went in - you sometimes can’t even recognize yourself in the mirror. That you can drown in the emotions it dredges up from the furthest reaches of your mind. Not only is it stressful for the people it envelopes, it can also change them, the living, and their connections with others. Ask any member of the Service; there’s a reason why spies often live alone.

Being surrounded by death was a hazard of the job, working for Kingsman. Eggsy had tried not to grow used to the stench of dead bodies and the copper tang of blood that hovered in the air, that clung to his skin and the fabric of his suit, after a particularly violent mission (he could still taste it, after V-Day - he nearly got sick the first time he bit down on his cheek hard enough to draw blood). Had tried not to become accustomed to the act of killing; tried to suppress the dissociation he felt when somebody took their last breath. Forced himself to hear it, to feel it, so that he wouldn’t become numb to the senseless violence that came as an element of the job.

But the idea of being surrounded by corpses was very different than having one walking about the mansion. Harry had shown up nearly a year after he got shot in the head - _after Eggsy had_ _watched_ him get shot in the head - with hardly anything outward to show for the trauma he had undergone aside from rigorous scarring on his forehead above his honey-brown left eye, several shades lighter than his right. He still had the same snarky attitude, the same desire to make the world a better place, the same silence that cropped up on a mission where the outcome was on a global scale, yet he neither wanted nor received thanks. Still took his tea with a dash of cream and one sugar, and favoured jam biscuits. Harry still wore his bespoke suits and styled his hair within an inch of its life, and still smelled of his cologne, the ever-present sandalwood, and gunpowder.

Death  _ had _ changed him, however. The man had sat down and luncheoned with the devil himself, it seemed. Held court with the most infamous beings to walk the Earth, and survived against all odds. There were different types of silences now, pensive and serious, bordering on almost a stretching abyss of danger. His trigger-hair temper dangled him on the precipice of outrage if you lost his good favour - and once lost, had little hope of being regained, even in cordial situations. He was more reckless in the field, more reckless in his personal life. Hungered for something that it seemed he had denied himself. Wanted - something. Nobody but the man himself seemed to know what that something was. At times, not even he seemed to know, wasn’t aware of the workings of his own mind. Perhaps what he wanted, some speculation seemed to lean toward, was power, even though the man had been presented the symbolic crown worthy of his title on a metaphorical silver platter. Others believed that it could be a certain blond, green-eyed ex-mentee, now a full fledged agent in his own right. The Knights were divided, and gave hardy efforts to not tiptoe around either of them, tentative to breach even the topic of relationships in their vicinity to forgo the ire of one, or the disappointment and unease of the other.

Eggsy still remembers vividly watching Harry step off the plane and onto the tarmac, all but strutting towards them, his hair loose and nearly unstyled, sans tie in favour of leaving the first two buttons of his shirt popped underneath his waistcoat and suit jacket. He could hardly believe that this was the same man he had known, who was so different yet simultaneously a near parallel.

He remembers the way Harry had solidly shaken Merlin’s hand and clapped the Scot on the back, giving his old friend a genuine smile, before coming to a stop in front of him; the way his own eyes had begun to prickle despite his better judgement. Eggsy remembers them both seemingly shift forward at once, Harry’s hands clutching painfully at his back and in his hair, his tangling in Harry’s collar, with Harry’s face pressed to the side of his head and his own buried in the man’s neck. Throwing public decorum out of the window in favour of open displays of affection that nearly bordered on reverence and desperation. He remembers taking a deep breath through his nose, trying to inhale as best he could, as though it would explain the how’s, the whys, the miracle.

He remembers, sharp and cutting as the blades in their oxfords, the distinct copper tang underneath the sandalwood, gunpowder perfuming the noxious scent of death. Eggsy remembers not breathing for a moment before letting out a stuttering exhale as Harry’s arms seemed to hold him even tighter. He remembers feeling cold, even in the man’s warm embrace.

Everyone’s experience with the reaper is different. There is no manual written on how to deal with the fallout. They tell those left behind to celebrate the life of their lost, to mourn but do not wallow, to move on but not forget. Those who have departed are taken on.

But how does one deal with the return of a man who has walked with death as an old friend, and no longer resembles to soul you once knew? How do you deal with the one you could once have loved being ripped away from you, only to return someone who has seen far more than any mortal ever should? How do you cope with loving that same man, against all power to stop yourself? How do you deal with a man who carries the scythe in disguise of an umbrella? 

You pray he is there before there is a knife in your back. 

You today he is merciful.


End file.
